


the end of all things

by grim_lupine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/M, Female Sam Winchester, First Time, Masturbation, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Series, Resolved Sexual Tension, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 19:50:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13982106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grim_lupine/pseuds/grim_lupine
Summary: In these coming years / Many things will change / But the way I feel / Will remain the sameThe year Sam is sixteen is relatively uneventful, but for two things: a month before school starts Dad actually decides to find a house to rent for the year, and when schooldoesstart, seasoned loner Sam actually makes some friends.





	the end of all things

**Author's Note:**

> title and summary lyrics from 'the end of all things' by panic! at the disco

The year Sam is sixteen is relatively uneventful, but for two things: a month before school starts Dad actually decides to find a house to rent for the year, and when school _does_ start, seasoned loner Sam actually makes some friends. 

The first is notable because of what it signifies — a detente, a softening in the perpetual locked-horns war between Sam and Dad over what constitutes a life worth living. The house is tiny and crumbling a little, with a smell like the previous tenant had too many pets. Sam and Dean get a cramped room to themselves with two twin beds, just enough space to lay out their clothes; there's a small kitchen table where sometimes all three of them actually sit together and have dinner. Sam _loves_ it. 

The second is notable because of Alison — or Alison’s older sister, really. 

Alison is a short, sweet-faced redhead who runs the school drama club iron-fisted, sees Sam’s practiced new-kid walk — determinedly flying under the radar everywhere except the classroom, at least as best as she can with her tall, lanky frame — and decides they're going to be friends. Sam bemusedly submits to being taken under wing, and finds with some surprise that it eases her transition into yet another new school’s social ecosystem considerably.

Alison’s _sister_ works at a sex shop, and apparently feels a calling to ensure girls are armed with the weapons that will ease them through the trials of life. 

“She says it's our _right_ ,” Alison confides to Sam in a giggling whisper. “Orgasms, I mean. She says it's just a natural part of life and we should embrace it.” 

“Sounds like she'd get along with my brother,” Sam says, ears burning a little. 

Alison grins at her and says, in a more practical tone, “She gets an employee discount, you know.” 

And that is how Sam finds herself getting ice cream after school one day with Alison, meeting Alison’s sister Rosalie for the first time, juggling a cone of chocolate soft-serve in one hand and exchanging a wad of cash for a discreet plastic bag with the other. 

Sam doesn't get an allowance or anything — that's not the way they operate — but sometimes she saves up money tutoring kids at school, or helping a neighbor with their lawn. It's nice to have a little tucked away; it comes in handy those occasional times when funds get tight and a job eats into what they have, and Sam starts to see smudgy shadows in the hollows of Dean’s eyes, sharpening his jawline, and realizes he's skimping his plate to put more on hers. It's nice to be able to contribute, even if she has to shove it into Dean’s wallet to make him take it.

Anyway, they're more flush these days — Dean’s got a job at the local garage — so Sam’s got a little to spend, and what she's going to spend it on is, apparently, a vibrator. 

When Sam leaves for home, bag shoved into the bottom of her backpack, Rosalie winks at her and says, “Have fun, kid.” The crooked smile on her face and the warm teasing in her voice put Sam suddenly in mind of Dean. She flushes from head to toe and makes her hasty goodbyes to Alison and Rosalie, walking back home. 

Thankfully no one's there when Sam gets to the house. She heads right to the bedroom, unzipping her backpack as she goes. She knows exactly where to hide the vibrator — and hide it she must, because the thought of Dad or Dean finding it is so mortifying she feels a little faint. 

Sam gets two drawers for herself in the peeling wooden dresser in their bedroom, miles of difference from living out of a duffel bag and the trunk of the Impala. One drawer is for her shirts and pants, the other for her socks, pajamas, and bras and panties. The vibrator gets tucked away into the back of the underwear drawer, wrapped in a couple of her oldest cotton pairs. 

Half of the time, Dad seems to see her as a genderless soldier in their endless crusade, a sum of her skills and nothing more. The other half, he looks at her with a sad, hurting light in his eyes; says in his gruff-tender voice, “I wish your mother were here,” and with that brushes every aspect of Sam-as-a-girl into the same bin: something he wishes he could handle, _could_ perhaps in another life, but that ceases to exist for him in this one. 

By contrast, the way Dean sees Sam is always _Sam_ first, and then everything else. He could no more ignore her being a girl than he could ignore anything else that makes her who she is; but it’s never thrown him, not Dean, who taught her how to tie her shoes and clean a gun, and with the same equanimity and surprising sensitivity bought Sam her first bras and left them on her bed for her to find, so the burn of embarrassment could leave her cheeks before she had to face him again. Not Dean, who went out for a pack of pads when Sam got her first period and spent a whole evening carefully rubbing her back; who taught himself how to braid her hair with the same stubborn focus he used to learn Latin and lore, because the other girls at school had pretty braided hair, and he didn’t want Sam to feel left out. 

Dean has done all of their laundry for years now, washing Sam’s bras and cotton panties and even the two nicer pairs with the lace edges she’d saved up for, unfazed. He used to fold them up and put them away in Sam’s bag, until she put a firm stop to it a year ago, telling him she’d do all their laundry if he wanted, but she was definitely doing her own from now on. 

He’d backed off with hands raised, mouth quirked like he wanted to tease her, but something almost a little sad in his eyes, like Sam was pulling away somewhere he couldn’t follow. 

But she had to. It was self-preservation, really. Sam used to drift all day, thinking about it: Dean’s hands on her panties, folding them, fingers hooked into the waistband and touching the cloth at the center, the same cloth cupping her between her legs. It made her so wet. It drove her _crazy_. She had to. 

And now no one will go into that drawer but Sam. She leaves the room and puts the vibrator out of her mind — she has no plans to use it when Dean or Dad could come home at any time. For now, her hand in the shower will do her just fine. 

 

*

 

A couple of weeks later, there’s a hunt in the next town over. Dad, in a rare benevolent mood, lets Sam stay home from it, tells her to study hard with a quick ruffle of her hair. 

“We’ll be back before 10,” Dean tells Sam, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and then letting go. 

Sam never stays home alone overnight, never mind that Dean used to when he was little more than half Sam’s age, in charge of her as well. They’d tried it once — Dean and Dad going after a spirit four hours’ drive from where they’d been staying at the time; when they returned the next day, scraped and battered and Dean bruised under his eyes like he’d been up the whole night, Dean had wrapped Sam up in his arms and said with taut command ringing in his voice, “Never again. She comes with us or we come back the same day.” Over his shoulder, Sam had met Dad’s eyes, the two of them for once wholly of one mind, united in their shared knowledge: that Dad was her dad and most days Dean expertly played the part of unquestioning deference to that fact; but no one had raised Sam as much as Dean, and so when Dean put his foot down and meant it, Sam would abide, and so would Dad. 

Sam helps Dad pack the trunk of the Impala, checks Dean’s bag to make sure he didn’t forget anything, orders the both of them to be careful, checks the salt line at the front door when they’re gone. All the little rituals that chafe her at times, but comfort her at others in their familiarity.

Then Sam looks around the empty house, a whole quiet day to herself stretching out before her. She _could_ use it to finish up all her homework, get a head-start on the English paper coming due in a week. Or. 

It’s been poking at her every time she remembers it, in a good way; it’s kind of nice to have a secret, one that’s exciting and not dangerous. 

It’s not like Sam doesn’t get herself off — usually in the shower, quick and practiced, or sometimes if she’s feeling daring and Dad’s on a hunt, Dean fast asleep and snoring, she’ll do it quietly in bed — but this is something new, thrilling. She shuts the door to the bedroom and gets naked from the waist down, getting into her bed with the vibrator in hand. 

Sam turns it on and presses it to the inside of her thigh just to feel the strength of the vibrations. It travels through her, making her squirm a little. She trails it up her thigh, then gets a tighter grip on it and presses it to the seam of her cunt. 

Sam yelps, pulling it away. It’s too strong — so concentrated a sensation she could barely make sense of it — but even in that second she could tell how good it could be. She fumbles with the button to turn the vibrations down and then puts it back between her legs. 

_Oh_. God. Sam keeps it off her clit at first, comes at it slowly, at an angle. It’s like nothing she’s ever felt; like everything’s centered between her legs, liquid and molten; like she’s driving toward something uncontrollable. Sam washes all over with heat, sweat prickling behind her knees. Her stomach swoops like an adrenaline drop of fear, like she’s climbing a roller-coaster — 

Biting her lip hard, Sam comes, legs shaking like she’s been running for hours. 

“Holy shit,” Sam pants, looking up at the ceiling, eyes wide. 

 

Sam comes five times that afternoon. She could go more, she thinks, but her cunt is a buzzing kind of numb, swollen and wet, and she feels so good she’s content to leave it at that. She cleans the vibrator thoroughly and stashes it back in the drawer, then takes a quick shower. Her body’s singing — so boneless and relaxed she wants to just curl up in bed and read, and so she does. Sam makes herself dinner when it starts getting dark outside, and then gets back into the warm nest of her blankets with her textbooks and starts working on her homework. 

A while later, Sam hears the familiar jungle-cat rumble of the Impala pulling up. She goes to the door with a gun in her hand, precautionary. There’s the sound of a key in the lock, then Dad comes in, stepping over the salt line, followed by Dean. 

“Good girl,” Dad says when he sees the gun, kisses the top of her head on his way into the kitchen.

Dean tugs the loose wet braid of Sam’s hair. “Got all your homework done, geek-girl?” he says, grinning. Hunting does something to Dean; something like the hard-edged competence that lines Dad’s face — knowledge of a job well done — but in Dean it shines youthful and electric, a glowing inner light. Sam feels it too, sometimes, when she hunts with them and can see before her a tangible difference she’s made in the world. But in Dean it’s just plain beautiful — though what isn’t? Her brother is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen in all her years. She can’t imagine she’d find any better if she lived ten times as long. 

“I had a productive day,” Sam says, smiling a little. Somehow today she is able to feel the warm heady buzz of wanting Dean without reeling from the sting of it. She decides to wallow in the feeling a little, push her luck; steps a little closer to Dean, wrapping her arms around his waist. 

As ever, Dean indulges her: folds strong arms around her and squeezes tight, until Sam feels like the whole world could batter at the circle of his arms and find themselves turned away cold. 

“Good hunt?” Sam mumbles into the fabric of Dean’s shirt. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, chin propped on top of her head. “But it’s good to be home.”

 

*

 

Life settles into a rhythm. Sam pulls in the grades that make her teachers look at her with assessing eyes, and keeps out sight the rest of the time. She hangs out with Alison and the other girls she’s befriended — Julie and Anya and Carmen — after school and during lunch. She tutors a handful of kids in math, and two doors down from their house Mr. Waters has two dogs that need walking, which is a dream. On weekends she hunts with Dad and Dean, and researches for them in the evenings the rest of the week. 

In close quarters Sam and Dad still end up butting heads at times; but then sometimes it’s easy, like a family should be, and the rest of the time Dad is gone on a hunt. With a small guilty pang Sam admits to herself that she likes it best those times — when it’s just her and Dean in the bubble of their house, orbiting around each other, Sam coming home from school and prepping for dinner so Dean can return from his shift at the garage and make it. It feels almost like they’re playing house — like Sam’s childhood certainty that she was going to grow up one day and marry Dean, because she loved him more than anything and that was what made sense in her world. 

Sam thinks about it when she’s getting herself off: a world where Dean wants her with the same burning fury that lives in her bones, where they could live together like this and keep it forever. Where Dean would come home from work and kiss Sam on the mouth instead of the top of her head, pick her up and take her into their bedroom with only one bed. Sam’s bolder with the vibrator these days, uses it in their bedroom with the door open until a half-hour before Dean’s shift ends. The few times Sam lets herself imagine what would happen if Dean came home early from work that day, she comes so hard she has to massage a cramp out of her thigh afterward. 

Dean asks her one day to spot him a twenty, makes noise about replacing it when he gets his pay in a few days until she glares at him and tosses a pencil at his head. 

“Second drawer from the top,” Sam says, going back to her reading. 

Dean laughs. “Keepin’ it in your underwear drawer, Sammy?” he says, turning to head into the bedroom. “Classic. Better hope we don't get any break-ins of the pervy kind.”

Sam rolls her eyes to herself, chewing on her lower lip absently as she turns the page. 

Then she freezes, remembering what she should have remembered a minute ago. 

Sam is still staring at the bedroom door with a half-open mouth when Dad enters the house, bag slung over his shoulder. 

“What's wrong, kiddo?” Dad says when he sees her face; but he's a little distracted when he says it, searching for his lighter, so Sam gets away with the strained, “Hmm? Nothing,” that leaves her numb lips. 

“Dean!” Dad calls, getting ready to leave. 

Dean comes out of the bedroom, shoving his wallet back into his pocket. “Yeah, Dad?” he says, sounding easy and normal — sounding normal while Sam is trying not to dissolve into a mortified puddle — while her pulse is galloping and her palms are sweating — sounding normal, but — 

Born with keen eyesight and trained toward details, Sam can see the faint pink flush suffusing Dean’s ears, the uncharacteristic fidgety tension in him as he crosses his arms over his chest, then relaxes them at his sides, then crosses them again. 

Dad gives Dean a list of instructions that Sam doesn't hear a word of, too busy watching Dean visibly twitch under her gaze, though he hasn't looked at her since he left the bedroom. 

“And look after your sister,” Dad finishes as he steps out the door, the oldest directive in Dean’s book. 

Dean turns his head to the side, finally looking at Sam. Sam's mouth goes dry. 

There is nothing teasing or even embarrassed in Dean’s look; he looks wild around the eyes, lit up greener than she's ever seen them. Sam can't look away. 

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, a rasp in his voice — and abruptly something opens up in front of Sam: the dawning, honey-sweet heat of possibility. 

 

*

 

Dean doesn't say a word about what he found, and neither does Sam. Sam — with the analytical brain, the research bent — sets about gathering evidence for her supposition, close as it might be to knowledge. 

They go running together early some mornings. Now that Sam isn't wallowing in her depressing certainty that she's alone in this, now that she doesn't let herself get wholly distracted by the unearthly, fine-boned beauty of Dean glowing golden under the rising sun, she sees more. 

It's not that Dean looks. It's how determinedly he _doesn't_ ; doesn’t look at Sam's long, lean legs in her running shorts. Doesn't look at her mouth when she drains a bottle of water and spills a little, lips glistening. 

Sam has known the weight of Dean’s gaze her whole life — assessing, protective, teasing and tender. The absence of it is nearly as palpable as its presence, telling. 

But Sam doesn't push. Her Dean-instincts rival all her other aptitudes, and they tell her firmly to let it be, for now. Sam is nothing if not capable of playing the patient, long game. 

Dad's going to be gone for a couple of weeks this time, the hunts stretching longer and longer the older they get. The Saturday after Dad leaves, Dean showers and gets dressed in one of Sam’s favorite outfits — stretched green t-shirt tight around his shoulders, scuffed jeans worn thin in the thighs. Sam pulls her hair out of its sleep-braid just to cover the back of her neck, heating up pink as she watches Dean buckle his belt. 

Dean looks up. “Gotta run some errands,” he says, shrugging on his jacket. “Guns need cleaning though, you — ”

“I've got them,” Sam says, waving him off. “I'll re-check the house too, it's been a while.” 

“Thanks, Sam,” Dean says, grabbing his keys and heading for the door. Then he stops with his hand on the doorknob, jerking in place like there's an invisible line hooking him to the house, to Sam. 

Dean turns around. His mouth is parted soft and uncertain, but there's a lightning look in his eyes. It charges the air between them until Sam shivers sharply, pinned in place. 

“I'll be gone for a while,” Dean says slowly. “A few hours, actually. Won't be back until 4, okay, Sammy?” 

Sam _knows_ , with sudden sparking clarity, exactly what he's telling her. 

“Okay,” she manages to get out, in a voice gone helpless and breathy. 

Dean sways toward her for one instant, before he wrenches himself away and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Sam cleans all of the guns and sharpens their knives. She goes around the house and checks all the salt lines at the windowsills and doorways, makes sure all the emergency weapons are stashed in their proper places. 

It might take twenty minutes; it might take two hours. Sam can't tell, walking through her tasks in an absent, white-hot haze, because it sounded like — it sounded like — 

It sounded like Dean had just told her explicitly how long he'd be gone, so she could get herself off, like he was giving her _permission_ — 

When Sam has that thought she has to stop where she stands and just breathe, pressing her hands to her feverish cheeks. Her nipples tighten up and peak under her shirt. _God_. 

Sam goes into the bedroom, already so turned on she's throbbing. For a second she almost considers doing this in Dean’s bed — not matching the step Dean’s taken forward so much as obliterating it — but she isn't that brave, just yet. 

In her bed, Sam warms herself up first with the vibrator pressed against her cunt through her panties. The vibrations are a little muffled, but they still roll through her in a way that makes the spread of her thighs go loose, head rolling against the pillow. She comes once like that, but it barely takes the edge off. 

Sam slides her damp panties off. Rocks the vibrator against her clit with a little more pressure now, backing off when she gets too close, then coming back in, because it's always sweeter if she makes herself wait a little. 

Is Dean thinking about this? Out all day, is he picturing Sam at home, touching herself, using the time he gave her?

Sam comes again, toes curling and thighs tightening. She throws one arm above her head and pants for breath, touching herself with light exploratory fingers as she recovers. Sam is so wet it spreads thickly over her fingers; so wet those fingers slide right in with no resistance, stroking where she is swollen full and hot. 

Sam works the vibrator inside her cunt, turns it on; bites her lip hard at the feeling and finds that the brief flash of pain winds her tighter, somehow. 

What if Dean were _here_? What if he were standing in the doorway, leaning on one muscled arm and watching with dark eyes as Sam fucks herself desperately? What if, in watching her, he found he couldn't help himself and came over to the bed, what if he reached down and _touched_ her — 

Sam usually comes silently; but this time she can't help the broken sobbing cry that leaves her throat, hips jerking on the bed, eyes flying open to see her dream dissipate. 

 

Dean comes home at 4:10, groceries in hand, sunglasses perched on top of his head. The muscles of his back shift and stretch under his t-shirt as he turns to lock the door. The sight of him sends a fluttery little spark through Sam’s body — the same reaction she’s had her whole life, before she even knew anything about want, when all she knew was that Dean was her whole world and she just wanted him to pay attention to her. 

“Had a good day?” Sam asks, following Dean into the kitchen and perching on the countertop, legs swinging, as he opens the fridge and starts putting the groceries away. 

“Yeah,” Dean says from inside the fridge, rummaging around. “Got a lot done.” 

He sounds supremely casual, sounds like he always does — but Sam knows better. He hasn't looked at her properly since he came home, skating around her carefully like she’s an open flame, like it might burn him to look her in the eye fully. 

Sam watches Dean pull out some eggs and cheese for their dinner — omelets, easy comfort food — and a beer for himself. He pops the cap off and drains half right there, a parched and desperate tell. The silence between them is _humming_. 

“Aren't you going to ask me how my day was?” Sam says at last, quietly needling, chin tipped up in challenge. 

Dean sets his beer down on the counter with an over-loud click. He opens the cabinet to the right of Sam’s head for the salt, standing in the bracket of her thighs to get it. 

Dean’s face, a foot from Sam's and yet deliberately angled away, is pale and thin-lipped, eyes blazing. Sam is fascinated by the set of it — almost angry, almost something familiar, except for the turbulent undercurrent to his movements that makes every hair on Sam's body stand on end. 

“How was your day, Sammy?” Dean says smoothly — silver-tongued practiced liar that he is, invoking Sam’s nickname like it might make her think better of this. Like she hasn't pictured him breathing it into her ear while he touches her all over a hundred times before. 

Sam closes the spread of her thighs slightly — just enough to brush Dean’s hips with the bare skin of her knees, just enough to make her erupt into a wave of fresh goosebumps. 

“It was _good_ , Dean,” Sam says, and her voice slides syrupy with satisfaction in a way she doesn't even intend, just can't keep from filtering through. “Really good.” 

Dean’s hand drops down above her knee, squeezing tight enough to bruise. In his other hand he has the salt clutched awkwardly in a fist. Dean finally turns his head to look at Sam head-on. 

No one has ever, ever looked at Sam the way Dean does, like she’s put a light in him just by existing, like everything else ceases to be. This look — fierce and frightened and starving — is new, but it fits. Everything about this fits. The nervous mortified way Sam had found herself tiptoeing around Dean before, afraid he'd know she wanted him, afraid of what he'd say — _that_ was the anomaly. Sam has always known with breathtaking, unquestioning certainty exactly how Dean feels about her. She knows again now. 

He wants her. He _wants_ her. 

Dean uncurls his fingers from Sam's knee slowly, like it's the hardest thing he's ever done. He takes a step back, then another. 

Sam watches Dean swallow twice before he speaks, and still his voice comes out gritty and low when he says, “Go wash your hands for dinner.” 

Sam goes.

He wants her. Sam can wait. 

 

*

 

Sam is good, for a few days more. She doesn't push, retreats into the safety of siblinghood, intense as their version of it might be. Dean is aggressively normal, teasing and ruffling her hair and Sammy-ing her, and Sam intends to let him have this reprieve and come to her on his own, she really does. 

Then Dean says offhand, sitting with Sam on their front step to watch the sun go down, arm around her shoulders to ward off the chill, “This is kinda nice, isn't it? I might even miss it next year.”

Reality hits Sam like a shot to the gut, slamming her so hard she almost chokes. Somehow she’s forgotten — how could she forget? This isn't her life, not really. She doesn't get to have this. 

For this year, yes; maybe even the next if Dad indulges her desire to finish out high school and graduate in the same place. But after that? What does Sam have to look forward to except a lifetime of motel after motel, hunting under Dad's watchful eye, having to see Dean throw himself into danger again and again? 

Sam doesn't get to come home to Dean in a house they’ve made warm. 

Throat tight, Sam leans into the curve of Dean’s arm, hunching in. Her pulse ticks away, counting down the seconds of their borrowed time.

 

“G’night, Sammy,” Dean says that night from his bed.

Sam says nothing, breathing slow and deep, like she’s sleeping. There’s no way it fools Dean, but he lets her be; from the look in his eyes the rest of the day he’d known she was upset about something, even if he didn't know exactly what it was. 

Dean lets out a sound like a sigh, shifting around on the bed until he's comfortable. Sam can hear the rhythm of his breathing slow down as he starts to relax. 

Under the covers, Sam turns on the vibrator. 

It's loud, even muffled by cloth. Sam’s heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns it out; she can barely believe she’s doing this, but the stubborn, wanting part of her that won't let her settle for less than she can have tells her it _has_ to be now. Sam has to push them _now_ , while they're teetering on that precipice, while they have a chance. Before they leave this golden bubble and end up in a life where they’ve stepped backward into the safety of ignoring this forever. 

Sam shuts her eyes. The darkness gives her the momentary illusion of solitude. She took her shorts off under the covers already; now she rocks the vibrator against her cloth-covered cunt, trembling. 

Slowly she drives herself forward and lets herself go, shifting on the bed, making no effort to quiet her breathing. She comes fast, with an exhalation of breath that barely cloaks Dean’s name; then she turns the vibrator off, shivering in the suddenly deafening silence. 

She opens her eyes. 

The curtain over the window in their room is a wispy, transparent thing, filtering in the moonlight and street light. Dean’s face, turned toward Sam, is illuminated in all its wild-animal hunger: the sharp dig of his lower lip caught between his teeth, the snapping catlike green of his eyes. His left hand is curled tight in his own shirt in visible self-restraint. 

Sam looks him full in the face. Turns the vibrator on again. She stares at Dean the whole time, mouth half-open and panting. The gleam of his eyes sears her skin; she _shakes_ when she comes this time, a quiet, wounded cry slipping out of her throat, and god, why won't he let them have this, why won't he just _come to her_ — 

When Sam blinks the haze from her eyes and looks at Dean again, she sucks in a gasping breath. There is true burning agony carved on his face — the look of a man dying of thirst, with the sweetest water before him where he can never reach it — and Sam finally realizes: Dean will never get out of that bed, not if she waits a thousand years for him. He will never make that first move without the wholehearted certainty of what Sam wants. Of what is good for her. It's not even an option for him. 

So it will have to be up to Sam. 

Slowly Sam stands; stumbles on coltish limbs toward Dean, like the first steps she'd ever taken. He sits up when she draws near, hands jerking helplessly toward her as she gets on the edge of his bed. 

“Sammy,” Dean whispers. Her name on his tongue is like music, quivering through her. 

“Tell me you don't want me,” Sam whispers back, leaning in to put her hands on his shoulders, press her forehead to his. “Tell me and I'll go, I swear, Dean…”

“I'm your _brother_ ,” Dean says, desperate and wavering. 

“You're _mine_ ,” Sam says, the truest thing in her life, and kisses him. 

Dean’s resolve could stand tall against anything life throws at him; anything but Sam, it seems. The world dips under Sam as Dean lifts her into his lap, kissing her like she’s air, like she’s keeping him alive. All the bravery and fight Sam had mustered to get here drains away, no longer needed; their absence leaves Sam boneless in Dean’s arms, clutching him with needy hands as she opens up for him. 

Dean nips her lower lip gently, then sucks it between his own. He releases it with a wet little sound that makes Sam whine, chasing after his mouth again insistently. Dean lets her have it, soft plush lips parted for her tongue. A tickle brushing the back of Sam’s neck makes her realize what Dean’s quick fingers have been up to, undoing her braid so that her hair falls around her shoulders in soft waves. Dean kisses Sam's mouth again, and then the curve of her cheek, then the spot behind her ear. He strokes a hand carefully through Sam’s hair, then buries his face in it and drags in a breath, groaning low.

Sam pulls away to look at Dean; he looks split-second guilty, like admitting this desire damns him somehow. 

Sam bends her head and puts the tip of her nose right at the collar of Dean’s t-shirt, where it bares skin. She breathes in the scent of him, skin-warm and dizzying, then brushes her lips up the curve of his throat. 

“I love the way you smell,” she says in Dean’s ear, confession for a confession. “That motel last year where the heat was broken, and you let me wear your sweatshirt — god, Dean, I couldn't sleep all _night_.”

Dean kisses Sam hard, putting his large hands in her hair and cupping the back of her head in a way that makes her want to melt and be held up solely by those hands. 

“You're killin’ me, Sammy,” he rasps when he breaks away, putting his hands on her waist, like it's safe there.

In response, Sam reaches down and pulls her shirt over her head. 

For a moment Sam feels shy — Dean’s patched her up after hunts, helped her change clothes when she was shaking from a fever, but he's never _looked_ at her like this, bare from the waist-up. Trembling a little inside, Sam overcompensates: straightens her shoulders and sits tall, tips her chin up. 

Dean’s eyes could ignite stone. He rakes them over Sam in a way that makes her sit tall for real, confidence growing in the face of his pupils blown wide, like she’s the hottest thing he's ever seen — Dean, who's had women from one side of the country to the other. 

He reaches out and drags a palm up her quivering belly. Her breast fits into the cup of his hand, the nipple pebbled taut and aching. Dean brushes his thumb over that nipple, then pinches lightly with thumb-and-forefinger as Sam swallows a whimper. 

The world rocks again: Dean braces his arm behind Sam's back and tips her, lowering her gently to the bed and straddling her from above so all she can see is him. 

“All right, Sammy,” Dean says quietly, almost to himself, thumbing the slick curve of Sam’s lower lip. He bends to kiss it right after, a slow sucking kiss he abandons right when Sam's heart is threatening to beat out of her chest. Dean kisses the line of Sam’s throat and the spot right under her collarbone; sets his soft full mouth between her breasts and under them, nudging the curve of them and sucking gently. He lays his kisses seemingly at random, and it doesn't matter one bit, because everywhere he touches comes alive under his mouth. It's like Sam's never been touched before by any hands, not even her own. That's how new and shivering her skin feels, like it’s been sanctified. 

Dean sucks her nipples into hard aching points; just watching his mouth at her breast, his eyes fluttering shut in bliss, makes Sam's cunt throb. She puts her hand on the back of Dean’s head and scrapes her nails through the short hair, feels him shiver against her. 

Down Sam’s stomach Dean goes with his tender, hot-mouthed kisses. His body slides through the spread of Sam’s thighs, curled first around his hips, then his shoulders, then his head. 

Sam has dreamed of Dean’s mouth; there is no other rational response to a mouth like Dean’s. Sam watches with her heart hammering in her chest as he kisses right under her navel, brushing the waistband of her panties. Then he puts his hands under her ass and tilts her hips up so he can put his mouth right on her cunt, right where her panties are so wet he has to be drowning in the scent and taste of her. 

Sam lets out a sound that’s half sob. She says Dean’s name in a voice so aching that he lifts his head at once, eyes wide and locked onto hers. 

Sam touches his cheek. “I want to see you too,” she says. Dean’s had his mouth between her legs and she hasn't even gotten to see him _naked_ yet. 

Dean blinks at her through his thick, heavy lashes, then rests his forehead against her thigh. 

“I forgot,” he says, shaking his head a little, and gets off the bed. A sharp pang of pleasure zings through Sam at that, at the idea that she'd distracted Dean so thoroughly he didn't even realize he was still dressed. 

Dean flicks on a lamp in the corner of the room while he's up. Sam turns to watch him, squeezing her thighs together at the sight of him. Dean’s beauty is a national fact: the kind that turns heads on the street, makes even the most jaded observers raise their eyebrows, knowing they’ve witnessed something special. The stretch of his arms as he pulls his t-shirt over his head makes Sam bite her lip; then he pulls down his underwear, and Sam can see his cock, hard and thick. She turns liquid right there: a rolling ocean of need barely held together by the skin of her body. 

Dean catches Sam's eye and stills — a predator’s anticipatory stillness, in the cock of his head and the set of his shoulders, before he reigns it in and relaxes himself. 

_Reigned in_ is not how she wants him. 

Sam puts her hand on her belly, slides it down; touches herself through her panties in even strokes, blinking slow and drugged at the feel of it. Dean stands half-shadowed in the lamplight, frozen. Then in two quick steps he is back on the bed, hooking his arms under Sam's thighs to drag her closer. Sam is already lifting her legs in the air to make it easier for him when he yanks her panties off, shoving the fistful of fabric under his own pillow. 

Dean spreads the folds of Sam’s cunt with his thumbs, licks through them and comes up with his chin wet. He groans, low in his throat, and Sam stops breathing for a minute. She is so fucking wet, came twice already tonight, simmering in perpetual arousal since then; Dean licks it all up greedily, mouth smacking wetly against her, strong calloused fingers clutching her thighs.

Gently, his tongue flicks at her clit; and then he closes those plush lips of his around it and sucks. It's too much — too good.

Sam shoves the heel of her hand into her mouth and bites down, stifling a fervent moan. Dean looks up and says in a rumbling voice, “Sammy, sweetheart — let me hear you.” 

Sam’s heart trips and melts over _sweetheart_ ; for that she could do anything. She abandons self-consciousness and lets Dean have her ragged moans, her high gasping breaths. The deliberate scrape of Dean’s stubbled cheek against her tender inner thigh gets him a cracked exhalation of his own name. 

Sam comes shaking between Dean’s hands, thighs closing around his head, eyes screwed shut. When she opens them again she has to knuckle away a few tears, panting for breath. 

Dean sits up from between Sam's thighs, the lower half of his face shiny-wet. His eyes are all pupil, thinly ringed by seaglass-green. 

“Fuck me,” Sam says, in a voice like swallowed sand. 

Dean says nothing, chest heaving, eyes wild. 

“ _Fuck_ me, Dean,” Sam says, propping herself up on her elbows to sit up and get closer. She feels tender all over, soft and thin-skinned like overripe fruit; she _needs_ him, still.

Dean reaches out to touch her, then turns abruptly to grab for his wallet on the little stool set by his bed. He pulls out a condom, opens it and rolls it on; Sam watches him move with smooth motions, so tightly restrained it only serves to highlight everything he's holding back. 

Sam is moving toward Dean even as he's sitting back against the wall, in the way they find themselves in sync at times. She gets in Dean’s lap with her hands on his shoulders, and squeezes tight as he lines up his cock for her to sink slowly, slowly down.

Sam’s cunt is sloppy-wet, but Dean's cock is so thick it still burns a little as she seats herself on it, biting her lip. Sam clenches around his cock, reveling in the unfamiliar fullness; looks into Dean’s eyes and sees that he knows now — she's never let anyone inside her before. There's no room there for anyone but Dean. 

It's not that he didn't know before; if Sam had come home post-sex, Dean would have known _that_ , in the unerring intuition with which he's always known everything she’s up to. But there is a difference between knowing a thing and _knowing_ it; Dean’s hands are tight possessive brands on her hips, but Sam puts her hand on his chest and feels his heart pounding at a panicking pace, like this might be his breaking point. 

Sam leans in and kisses Dean briefly, then bites his lower lip with fierce punishing teeth. 

“It was never going to be any other way,” she says quietly in his ear. 

It's like she’s cut his leash: Dean growls and hauls her up, fucking into her as he drops her back down; Sam lifts herself too, but it's mostly Dean’s powerful arms and thighs doing the work of bouncing her on his cock, and Sam just holds on for it, sobbing out little punches of breath _ah-ah-ah_ every time he fills her up. 

He’s relentless, and Sam takes it all; her cunt is so tender and sensitive, and when Dean holds her in his lap and rubs her clit with his thumb it hurts, and she loves it, she _loves_ it, she loves _him_ — 

Sam draws blood when she comes this time, little half-moons of her nails embedded in Dean’s arms. She's crying, she thinks; at least her face feels wet when she lifts a clumsy hand to it, but she can't feel anything else, anything other than her weak-limbed, feverish body held tight in Dean’s arms. 

Dean, who is pressing fervent kisses to Sam's hair and her damp cheek and her open gasping mouth, who stays there breathing into her like he's giving her life, and comes. 

Sam feels him tighten up and then sink back, stroking his hands through Sam’s hair. She stays where she is, wanting to keep him inside her for as long as she can, and puts her arms around his neck. 

Dean pulls away, tipping Sam's chin a little to look at her, brushing her cheeks dry with his thumbs and then his fingers. He guides her head down onto his chest and buries his face in her hair. 

Slowly she realizes that he’s trembling too, wrapped around her. 

“Sammy,” Dean says; and Sam will never again hear her own name the same way, not after she's heard it steeped in this much love and pain. “We shouldn't — ”

“Don't,” Sam says. 

“ _I_ shouldn't have — ” Dean starts, and his voice is misery-thick.

“ _Don't_ ,” Sam says wretchedly. To get every want that’s tormented her night and day finally fulfilled, and then have it make Dean sound like this — she can't bear it. “We didn't do anything wrong. You don't know — Dean, you don't even know how long I've wanted this.”

“It's not what _you_ want that’s the problem,” Dean says hoarsely. He still won't lift his face from Sam's hair. 

“What, so I can want anything but if it's you it's wrong?” Sam says furiously, finally yanking out of Dean’s arms so she can look him in the eye. 

Dean’s face is thin-lipped and pale with guilt, but the light in his eyes — raw need, wildfire bright — makes her stop in her tracks. Sam's chest aches sharply with love, with the knowledge that she has to step carefully. That her brother is as vulnerable here as she's ever seen him, or ever will again. 

“Dean,” Sam says gently, putting her hand on his cheek. “I can want anything? There’s nothing wrong with whatever I want?” 

Dean nods slowly. 

“Do I get what I want, Dean?” Sam continues, still gentle, but merciless. “I mean — do I deserve to? You want me to have it?” It's a question that doesn't even need voicing — what has been Dean's calling, if not that? To give Sam anything she wants, anything Dean can give her plus a little more? 

Dean knows where she is heading, by the slow rueful curl of his mouth; but still he says softly, “Yeah, Sammy,” with his jewel-bright eyes fixed on her face like the end of the world couldn't tear him away. Sam has him, she knows — has Dean’s heart, the very core of him, clutched in her fist. She always has. Always will. 

It doesn't scare her, the weight of it. She'll fight anything or anyone for Dean — Dad, herself when she hurts him thoughtlessly, or even Dean himself, if he won't love himself the way Sam wants him to be loved. 

Sam takes Dean's face in her hands. “Good,” she says, looking into his eyes — twin green stars bright in her sky, in a face her world has risen and set by from the very start. “Dean — I want it _all_.”


End file.
